


I Want You, I Want You, I Want You

by bittergreens



Series: The City of Dreams [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Explicit Sexual Content, Fingerfucking, Hand Jobs, John Watson is the master of sex, John Watson loves to suck cock, John takes Sherlock apart piece by piece, M/M, New Relationship, Oral Sex, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Romance, Sexual Content, Sherlock is both an ice queen and a desperate needy baby in bed, Smut, lazy morning sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 02:40:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3273713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittergreens/pseuds/bittergreens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the leisurely aftermath of a particularly exhausting case, Sherlock and John explore their new relationship in bed. John helps Sherlock learn how to come undone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Want You, I Want You, I Want You

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a sequel to my story [The City of Dreams](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1696412), and takes place the morning after the events of that story conclude. However, there's no need to have read that one to enjoy this one! All you need to know: John and Sherlock are in Vienna on a case- they've just solved it, and it's early days for their relationship.

_Because I want you, my love,_  
_in the attic where the children play,_  
_dreaming the old lights of Hungary_  
_through the rumours of the warm afternoon,_  
_seeing lambs and lilies of snow,_  
_in the dark silence of your forehead._  
_Ay!_  
_Take this waltz called ‘I love you always.’_

_In Vienna I’ll dance with you_  
_wearing a disguise_  
_with the head of a river._  
_Look at the hyacinth shores I wear!_  
_I will leave my mouth between your legs,_  
_my soul in photographs and white lilies._  
_In the dark waves of your journey_  
_I want, my love, to leave_  
_—violin and tomb—the ribbons of waltz._

- _Pequeño Vals Vienés_ , Federico García Lorca  
trans. Pablo Medina & Mark Statman

 

Bright sunlight against his eyelids drew John out of a deep sleep.

He blinked and opened his eyes to see sunlight streaming in through the vast windows of the hotel room suite. From where he lay on the massive bed he could see that the city stretched out below was covered in a layer of fresh snow. Even from this high up, the snow-covered spires and turrets of the city made it look like a frosted cake, the icy twist of the Danube shining silver in its midst.

John blinked again, and took in his more immediate surroundings.

The mounded duvet around him, bathed in winter sunlight, mirrored the snow beyond the window that blanketed the dreaming city, sparkling in the late morning late. 

Sherlock was curled beside him under the pile of duvets, hidden from sight beneath the heap of bedding.

John could feel the press of Sherlock’s hip against his side under the covers, the curve of his arm against John’s, serpentine, elegant, the only visual evidence of his sleeping form the smudge of his dark hair against the pillow.

In fact, between the pillows and the duvet, there was really no trace of any human form at all, just mounds of soft white down. 

John resisted the instinct to pull back the duvet and peek at Sherlock’s sleeping face, whose serious and often grave expression evaporated when he was asleep, transformed into the youthful face of some anonymous sleeping beauty, like those John had seen during his visit to the Kunsthistorisches Museum earlier in the week: nymphs reclining on the banks of the Rhine; pale shepherds bending over streams, their red lips parted in delight, tunics slipping off their shoulders as they stooped to fill their jugs.

Sherlock was often a mystery to John. He was many things: a delight, a frustration, a source of joy, but in the mornings, he became a work of art.

John wasn’t much for art museums but he did enjoy the portrait galleries—studying the faces of humans from centuries past, their images preserved in time by the painter’s brush, men and women who looked no different than the patrons strolling through the galleries. He found it fascinating. He’d had one afternoon at the beginning of the week when Sherlock was up to his ears in bank documents and John had been able to slip away. He’d set off for the part of the city where many of the finest museums were housed and chosen one at random.

The collection was impressive and John found himself looking at paintings that he recognized from the sole art history class he’d taken in university, even though he didn’t remember the names of the painters. He amused himself by imagining Sherlock’s reaction to the museum. What was Sherlock’s attitude towards fine art? Disinterested, John assumed. “Dull, John. Dull!” he imagined Sherlock saying, stalking past the canvases without a second glance—he likely wouldn’t have lasted more than five minutes.

John tried to comfort himself with this fact, that this was a rare opportunity for him to enjoy himself without Sherlock’s childish impatience preventing him from experiencing yet another aspect of this city, but after several rooms of still life’s, Flemish landscapes and conquistadores, he began observing the museum’s patrons almost as much as the paintings on the walls, and he found himself wishing that Sherlock was there beside him, whispering a running commentary on the lives of all the people walking by. 

However John soon found his attention arrested by the paintings once more when he entered the room with the Italian painters from the seventeenth century. Perhaps it was simply that John had gone almost a week now with no sex, but he found there was something undeniably sensual about the figures in the paintings around him. The pale bodies on the canvases seemed to leap out at him from the shadows, drawing his eye to every curve, every twist of flesh. Something about the dramatic lighting—the harsh contrast between light and dark—and the lavish quality of the often violent scenes depicted, their moodiness, their gravitas, reminded him of Sherlock. 

One painting in particular made him pause. It was by an Italian painter, Giovanni Francesco Barbieri, and the English translation under the German read: “The Return of the Prodigal Son.” The painting showed an old man standing between two younger men—one dressed in fine clothes, the other, bare-chested, dark-haired, shown in the act of pulling off his threadbare shirt to accept a fine new set of clothes from his father. 

Perhaps it was just his coloring—pale skin with a shock of black hair—but it was also the grace in his arching torso, the strength in his body, the powerful curves of the muscles in his arms set in contrast with the youthful beauty of his face that made John think of Sherlock. 

He had to leave the museum promptly after seeing that painting, and he was grateful for the shock of cold air that greeted him as he made his way back out onto the street, the sharp tug of the Viennese winter wind blowing the lapels of his jacket back against his face, distracting him from the hot humming presence of the desire that had come so vividly to life between his legs.

John hadn’t dared return to the hotel room in his distracted state—being in the same room as Sherlock and restraining himself would have proved an impossible feat—so he’d walked the glittering boulevards under the ornate Baroque facades of the old city until the sky turned pink and at last grew dark, stopping for a strong cup of coffee in a tiny café around the corner from their hotel, before returning to their rooms. Only then, did he feel sufficiently fortified to return to Sherlock’s side with a calm head.

In the end, all John’s precautions had proved meaningless, as he’d returned to a hotel room dark and long abandoned—Sherlock had raced out to pursue another lead in the banker’s whereabouts without bothering to wait for John.

He’d tried not to feel the sting of this abandonment too keenly, reminding himself that this trip was _not_ a lovers’ holiday, despite the lavishness of their hotel, that it was for a case, and just because they were now lovers that didn’t mean that Sherlock would change his ways as they related to the work.

Thinking back on all this, John felt a burgeoning sense of gratitude fill him at all that had transpired last night between them. He hadn’t dared to dream that Sherlock would be amenable to the demands of his body so soon after the completion of the case. If this was to be Sherlock’s new method for congratulating them both on a job well done, then John was in full support of it. 

To have Sherlock here beside him now, sleeping so deeply and peacefully seemed something of a miracle and part of John wanted to stay exactly where he was, with Sherlock’s bare body coiled warm against his hip under the cocoon of blankets.

However, another part of John was acutely aware of just how long it had been since either of them had eaten anything substantial, and the growling in his stomach was starting to become violent.

Moving as deftly and quietly as possible, John slid out from under the mound of comforters and padded barefoot over the luxurious carpet into the adjoining room where the desk was with the heavy book containing all the information about room service.

John seated himself naked in one of the high-backed armchairs and opened to the breakfast menu. 

After several moments of quiet reflection, John picked up the phone.

He ordered one of everything.

In the time it took for the food to arrive, John used the bathroom and pulled on one of the ridiculously luxurious silk robes hanging in the closet. He picked up the newspaper that had been delivered earlier in the morning and was just starting to consider ringing again to see how much he’d have to charge to get them to expedite the breakfast making process when a polite knock sounded at the door.

The feast John ordered had arrived.

He wheeled the heavily laden cart of food over until it was beside the bed, whereupon he climbed back in next to Sherlock and started lifting off the shining silver covers to reveal the delicacies beneath.

John had already eaten his way through almost the entirety of the contents on the cart and was just tucking into his second plate of pastries, happily spilling crumbs all over the sheet and the newspaper in his lap, when the mound of eiderdowns beside him stirred.

He heard a low rumbling sound from under the duvet.

“What’s that? Is there a minor earthquake occurring somewhere just outside Vienna or is Sherlock Holmes waking up?”

“Not waking up,” the pillow replied sullenly. And then, after a pause. “Coffee.”

John lowered his paper to look sternly at the heap of bedding beside him. “You do realize you have to wake up to drink coffee, don’t you? That’s sort of the point.”

A slender white arm snaked its way out from under the pillow and proffered an open palm. “Coffee.”

Sighing dramatically, John poured a cup of the strong rich coffee into the delicate blue porcelain cup.

“You know you’re going to have to move the pillow to drink this.”

The fingers wiggled demandingly. The pillow stayed where it was.

With another long-suffering sigh, John placed the cup carefully in Sherlock’s open hand. “I’m giving this to you but if you spill _one drop_ of coffee in this bed, you are calling room service to deal with it, not me.”

The cup vanished momentarily behind the pillow. John heard Sherlock give a sigh of pleasure.

“ _How_ are you doing that?”

The cup re-emerged, now half empty, and John caught a glimpse of Sherlock’s face as he lifted up the corner of the pillow to hand it back to John.

John took it and set it on the breakfast tray next to him.

“John, I am a man of many talents, of which crime-solving and sex are only two of a multitude. Surely you know this by now?”

“A man of many talents, are you?”

“Mmm.”

Sherlock pushed the pillow the rest of the way off his face and twisted himself into a sitting position, peering quizzically at the spread of elaborate food that John had ordered. “Are you intending to single-handedly provide the hotel with their business for the year?”

“I am intending to eat the equivalent of all the breakfasts I did not eat throughout the week. I would say I’m about halfway there.”

“Mmm.” Sherlock lifted himself higher on his elbows in order to survey the selections on John’s plate. He reached over, plucked the fluffiest piece of coffee cake from the plate and took an enormous bite, spilling crumbs all down John’s arm.

“Oye!”

“Oh, you love it,” Sherlock said through a mouth full of coffee cake, leaning his head in against John’s arm to get a better look at the paper in John’s lap.

John rolled his eyes, but had the dignity not to respond. Sherlock was right of course. There was something impossibly endearing about a tousle-headed, still sleepy Sherlock, dropping pastry crumbs against him as he leaned in.

“We made the front page.” John flicked back to the front of the paper where a large photograph showed their disheveled target with an angry face and a bloody nose being bundled into a police car.

Sherlock glanced at the title and snorted. “I do love the Viennese papers. They always have a sense of humor.”

“What’s it say?”

“Oh, I won’t bother translating it for you. The pun is lost in translation. But they made a very clever reference to the opera.”

“Hmm.” John flipped back to the article he was pretending to read.

Sherlock, who had already made short work of the piece of coffee cake, reached around John to steal another pastry.

This time, he chose one that was covered in icing and powdered sugar.

He sank back into the duvet with a long, luxurious sigh. How he managed to do this and not blow powdered sugar over half the bed was a mystery to John.

“Same goes for getting icing in the sheets.”

“Oh, John,” Sherlock said dreamily from out of sight beyond the mounded duvet. The only evidence of his speech was a small cloud of powdered sugar wafting gently over onto John’s side of the bed. “You’re such a grumpy old man.”

John flipped the edges of the paper and grumbled, but more softly this time. “You’re going to be covered in powdered sugar.”

“Well then you can have the pleasure of licking it off me.”

John loved Sherlock after cases. It was like he became a different species. The transformation was remarkable. He went from being high-energy, wound up like a spring, running here and there, never stopping for breath, to a slow, languorous creature that draped itself over furniture, and could lie for hours in a patch of sunlight without moving a muscle. 

He became dreamy, sensuous, all his body’s faculties slowed to a pace at which he never would have had the patience to operate normally. 

Of course, both extremes of Sherlock’s personality had the potential to make John insensate with rage. Another way to characterize Sherlock just after a case was lazy. John couldn’t get him to do anything useful around the house, but then again, nor could he get the Sherlock who was manically working on a case to do any of those tasks either. 

There was something about Sherlock just after a case that had always been infectious to John, that had made him want to drop whatever he was doing and stretch himself out beside Sherlock, studying the gentle rings of smoke he blew from his mouth, trail his fingers over the prone curve of his throat as he tilted his head back. 

John remembered one time in particular, before their relationship had entered this new phase, when Sherlock had emerged from the darkness of his bedroom after a case dressed only in his dressing gown. It was belted so loosely over his hips that the gap between the fabric had extended almost to his belly-button, leaving very little doubt about the fact that Sherlock was entirely naked underneath.

He’d thrown himself down on the sofa, long legs stretched out before him, settling his clasped hands over his stomach and tilting his head back. Then, shutting his eyes, he’d proceeded to recite the entirety of a poem by Goethe that John only later came to realize was Sherlock’s own translation.

The poem had gone on and on, the low hum of Sherlock’s sonorous voice pulling John into a kind of trance until he’d been unable to resist sinking down onto the couch beside Sherlock simply to watch him as he spoke, the movement of his throat and lips as he sounded out the words.

John remembered the way the late afternoon sun had thrown its gentle light over Sherlock’s motionless, sprawling form, how it had warmed the hollow of his pale chest, his long folded fingers striped with shadows from the half-sunk blinds, the motes of dust caught in the beam of light above him seeming to move in harmony with the rhythm of his words.

He’d wanted so badly in that moment to reach out and touch Sherlock, not motivated by lust but by the simple aesthetic impulse to see the whole of Sherlock’s splendid frame laid bare before his eyes, to see the way the sun would strike the curves and hollows of his torso, his hips, and what lay between them.

All right, so perhaps he had been motivated by lust, at least in part. 

When Sherlock had finished, John remembered he had sunk into a long and torpid silence, entirely still save for the flex of one raised hand that he had held up to the light. He had been worried then that Sherlock might be high, so focused was his gaze on the long pale digits of his one outstretched hand, but he’d come to realize after several similar incidents following this one, that this was just Sherlock’s way after a case. 

He was a sensuous creature by nature and it seemed that his body coming down after the peculiar strains and deprivations he inflicted upon it during a case came alive to him in new and unexpected ways.

John had often mused upon the possibility of what it would have been like to be with Sherlock in this state with no restrictions on his behavior. 

In other words, to put it crudely, John wondered what he would be like to fuck.

He realized with a sudden thrill of pleasure that this was the first opportunity he might have to do so—indeed, he had already done so last night, but the realization that the spell of Sherlock’s post-case bliss had not yet broken was being made very apparent to John by the way Sherlock was languidly and thoroughly eating his way through his second pastry; Sherlock, who had eaten something like three meals altogether in the course of their week in Vienna.

Sherlock sat up, and just as John had predicted, there was a fine mist of powdered sugar coating the top of his dark head like freshly fallen snow.

John couldn’t stop himself from emitting a low chuckle. “You look like you got caught in a mini-sugar blizzard.”

“How appropriate.”

Sherlock didn’t smile back. He was too busy licking icing off his fingers in a manner that was far too sensuous to be unintentional. Suddenly, Sherlock’s invitation to lick him clean of powdered sugar sounded very appealing.

John set the newspaper and the plate of pastries aside.

Sherlock was lapping at his fingers like a cat, his eyes low-lidded, pink tongue curling around each impossibly long finger before sucking the whole of it into his mouth. The powdered-sugar in his hair, instead of making him look ridiculous, made him look like some sort of ethereal ice creature who had just climbed naked out of the snow with the intent of luring innocent men to their deaths.

“Tell me,” John said, sliding closer, and taking hold of the wrist of the hand Sherlock was so fastidiously licking. “Are there any legends about Viennese ice demons?”

Sherlock stopped licking to look up at John through heavy lashes. Even his eyelashes were dusted white with powdered sugar. His eyes still held that dreamy expression, his irises a pale ice blue. 

How fitting, John thought, bringing Sherlock’s hand up to his mouth and pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

“Mmm, never heard of such a thing. There is however a creature in Nordic folklore that lives in fresh water called the _näcken_ or _strömkarlen_. He’s a shape-shifter that often takes the form of a beautiful man and he is an exceptionally talented musician. He’s deviously clever and dangerous.” 

Sherlock sighed happily as John pulled one long finger into his mouth and sucked.

John smiled wickedly around the knuckle. “Sounds like you’re just describing yourself.”

“He plays his violin to lure his victims onto thin ice, or into leaky boats and then draws them down to the bottom of the water to drown.”

“Still quite an uncanny resemblance.” John pulled his mouth off slowly, licking at the pads of Sherlock’s fingers. “Should I be worried?” John breathed as Sherlock started sinking backwards down against the pillows, pulling John with him by the grip on his hands.

“Well, lucky for you there’s no freshwater close enough to pose any real risk.”

“I don’t know,” John murmured, lowering Sherlock’s fingers to lean in and find his sugarcoated mouth. “That bathtub in there is almost large enough to be considered a body of water.”

Sherlock laughed from deep in his chest and John felt his whole body light up at the realization that this was really happening, Sherlock was really here, completely relaxed with nowhere to go, happy, and naked and all _his_.

“I think I can handle a Scandinavian water demon,” John said, pushing the pile of comforters down and off Sherlock’s hips to bare his lovely pale body to the morning sunlight streaming in.

“I don’t doubt that you can,” Sherlock replied, pushing his arms up over his head and stretching so that his head tilted back deep into the pillows, his torso arching up off the bed. 

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John murmured, trailing one hand down the delicate web work of his ribs that stood out as he stretched. “I think you’re the one that needs to be worried right now.”

“About what?” Sherlock asked, looking up at John through heavy-lidded eyes.

“About the fact that I’m about to eat you up.”

John spared a moment to push the silk of the robe he was wearing off his shoulders before descending on Sherlock, one spread hand settling against the soft warmth of Sherlock’s belly as he leaned down to claim his mouth.

Sherlock’s mouth was open when John reached it, his tongue pushing up hot and sweet into John’s. He tasted like the pastries he’d been eating—that, and a little like desperation as he pushed up into John’s mouth with a sound like a growl in the base of his throat.

John lifted his other hand to frame Sherlock’s jaw, one thumb stroking gently over the sharp ridge of his cheekbone, savoring the feel of two such different parts of Sherlock under each of his hands, thinking in a rush of feeling how much the experience captured the contradictions at the heart of Sherlock himself, how sharp he could be, how brutal, but John knew—only John knew, of his intense capacity for tenderness.

Sherlock shifted under John’s mouth, the lewd undulations of his tongue against John’s making the erection between John’s legs impossible to ignore. 

Without pulling his mouth away from Sherlock’s, John crawled closer, climbing over Sherlock to straddle his hips.

Sherlock made an affirmative noise into John’s mouth and settled his hands on John’s arms, running his palms down the lines of muscle that bulged in John’s biceps as he leaned forward to place his weight on his palms. 

“My god, Sherlock—” John broke away to gasp into Sherlock’s mouth. He pushed his forehead in against Sherlock’s to study his face up close. He still had powdered sugar in his eyelashes.

Sherlock tilted his jaw up into John’s, the look in his eyes mischievous, full of hunger. “I think there are still some places with powdered sugar that you missed.”

“Oh really?” John replied, still trying to catch his breath. The feeling of Sherlock’s warm, living body between his legs was making it difficult to concentrate on anything Sherlock was saying.

“Yes,” Sherlock murmured, pushing his jaw higher to elongate his throat. “There’s some on my neck.”

John kissed the corner of Sherlock’s lips before letting his mouth slide down the length of Sherlock’s bared throat, pausing to suck at the place by Sherlock’s ear that he knew always drove him to distraction.

Sherlock whimpered as John’s teeth sank in; making a love-bite to match the one Sherlock had left on John’s neck the night before. Sherlock’s hips stuttered up and he felt the heat of Sherlock’s erection rub up against the crease of his buttocks.

John let his mouth slide further down until he found a dusting of powdered sugar on the curve where Sherlock’s neck met his shoulder. John licked at it, flattening his tongue, exaggerating the gesture so that he was lapping at the crease of Sherlock’s neck in long broad strokes, his hips grinding down into the soft flesh of Sherlock’s stomach with each drag of his tongue until Sherlock was pulling John’s body down against him, searching for more friction against his fully erect cock.

“John,” Sherlock gasped, hands sliding down to hold John by his hips. “I think—there’s some on my—” Sherlock swallowed, blinking up at John with wide innocent eyes. “On my chest.”

John reared back slightly, taking a moment to simply appreciate the difference between this Sherlock and the Sherlock of the night before. It was striking how much one night’s sleep could do to affect his temperament, his whole attitude toward sex. Last night he had been demanding, dominant, in control, but the Sherlock between his thighs now was more open, more vulnerable, both physically in the pliancy of his sleep-softened body under John’s, but also in the way he arched and gasped without hesitation. John could tell how deeply each sensation affected him by the measure of his responses.

He was so much more responsive, so much more attuned to his body after he’d allowed himself to drop back into the awareness of his physical reality, even after just a few hours.

“Your chest, is it?” John murmured against Sherlock’s collarbone as his mouth drifted down. He kept his lips parted; let his breath fan out against the skin of Sherlock’s chest as he slowly made his way down to his nipple.

John loved Sherlock’s nipples—they were a delectable pale pink, the color of the inside of a shell, but even more than the color he loved how unbelievably sensitive they were. 

John remembered the first time he had discovered this—it was only their second time in bed together and Sherlock had yelled so loud at the touch of John’s mouth that they had woken Mrs. Hudson.

She’d come up; politely knocking at the door with a concerned, sleep-roughened voice to inquire whether everything was all right. 

They’d been on the living room sofa at the time and Sherlock had been so startled by the interruption that he’d fallen off the couch. 

John, muffling his mouth to hide the tide of unstoppable giggles that had erupted, had managed to swallow down his giddiness long enough to choke out, “Everything’s fine, Mrs. H! Just helping Sherlock get a splinter out of his foot! Nothing to worry about.”

After several murmured affirmations, she had vanished back down the staircase, her departure confirmed by the squeaking seventh step, and John had let himself dissolve into laugher, hanging off the arm of the couch until he was gasping for breath as Sherlock stared up at him from where he was still sprawled on the carpet with his hands behind him, his eyes wide and utterly shocked. 

“A splinter?” he’d finally said, with complete derision. “Really, John.”

“What else was I supposed to say? It’s the first thing that came into my head.”

“A splinter,” Sherlock sat up a little straighter on the carpet with a sniff. “Now she’s going to think I have absolutely _no_ pain tolerance whatsoever.”

“Sherlock,” John said gently, still swallowing back the tide of his mirth. “I’m fairly certain she had every idea what we were doing.”

“Then why lie at all?” Sherlock was still pretending to be miffed but John could tell his composure was beginning to crack. He shook his head, one corner of his mouth ticking up in a smile. “A bloody splinter.”

“Come up here,” John had said with warm affection, reaching down with both hands to pull Sherlock back onto the couch beside him.

Needless to say, John had never forgotten the effect his mouth could have on Sherlock’s nipples so he approached them now with a mix of eagerness and caution.

Sherlock’s breathing was already growing uneven above him as John’s mouth dipped down to brush his areola. 

Sherlock didn’t scream this time but he arched his back with an audible gasp as John let the tip of his tongue gently stroke over the tiny bead of flesh.

He kept the touch of his tongue light and delicate so that Sherlock would be aware of every tiny nerve ending as his tongue dragged it into life. He reached up and let the pad of his thumb brush gently over the other one as he licked.

Sherlock gasped again, louder this time, his hands coming to rest on the back of John’s head, fingers scraping lightly over his scalp. 

“That’s very good, John. You’re doing a m-marvelous job but I think there’s still a bit you missed on the other one...”

John smirked against Sherlock’s chest and let his mouth drift over to take the place of his thumb. This time he lowered his mouth down slowly, and blew a long warm breath over the sensitive skin, watching as Sherlock’s nipple stiffened under the touch of his breath.

He swirled his tongue around the whole circumference of the areola before making contact with the small hard bead of flesh. He could hear Sherlock’s breathing growing more and more ragged above him, his fingers tightening in John’s hair.

“John—” There was a note of desperation in Sherlock’s voice and just as he opened his mouth to speak John swept his tongue over it, making Sherlock groan beneath him, pushing his chest up against John’s mouth.

John licked and licked at the sensitive skin until Sherlock was twisting underneath him, moaning continuously, his hips bucking ineffectually under John’s weight.

John could feel the slickness at the head of Sherlock’s cock as it strained up against him.

John sat back on Sherlock’s legs, grinning. “God, you could really come just from this, couldn’t you?”

Sherlock opened hazy eyes and glared up at John, his expression somehow imperious and sex-saturated all at once. “Don’t tease me, John.”

John leaned down to press a kiss to Sherlock’s heaving ribs, watching with amazement as gooseflesh broke out over Sherlock’s skin just from the gentle touch of his lips. “I’m sorry, it’s just… I love how sensitive you are.” 

“I’m not sensitive,” Sherlock sniffed, unconvincingly as his torso jumped under the slide of John’s mouth down his side. “I am impenetrable, impregnable—my body is a fortress made of steel.”

“Mmm, yes… you’re made of ice, just like that water demon you were telling me about.”

Sherlock made a disapproving noise. “The creature I was telling you about isn’t made of ice—and it’s not a demon, it’s a shape-shifter. Very different. Really John, weren’t you listening at all?”

John was too busy pressing tiny kisses all down Sherlock’s side to respond. He shimmied further down Sherlock’s legs so he could lean over and focus his attentions on the lovely concave softness of Sherlock’s belly, which he also knew to be very sensitive—far more sensitive than Sherlock would ever admit.

It was too good to be true—having Sherlock stretched out naked and acquiescent underneath him on these ridiculously soft silk sheets. The morning sunlight was still cutting in through the windows of the suite, but the angle had changed in the hour or so since John had woken up and the bed was now awash in sunlight.

Sherlock’s pale torso seemed to glow in the clean, white light and John gave himself a moment to simply take in the sight of this dark-haired beauty spread out beneath him. Sherlock’s lips were red from kissing, his cheeks and throat flushed a dull pink, and for the second time that morning, the sight of Sherlock made John think of a painting he had seen—this time, one by Gustav Klimt of a dark-haired woman with a band of gold around her throat, her chin tipped proudly up, something haughty and disdainful in her gaze, but also deeply compelling, as though she were trying to draw the viewer in simply by the look in her eyes— _Come here, come closer_ , she seemed to be saying, _Look what I have_.

“John,” Sherlock breathed, his hands reaching out to hold John’s knees where they were pressed in against Sherlock’s hips, drawing him out of his reverie. “What are you looking at?”

John bent down to return his mouth to Sherlock’s belly, pressing his lips in against the sun-warmed skin. “You.” 

John let his eyes flicker up to Sherlock’s as he opened his mouth and licked the soft skin over Sherlock’s hip, relishing the sharply indrawn breath that pulled Sherlock’s stomach taut beneath his tongue.

“You’re always stunning to behold but having you now, like this…” John pushed his tongue into the warm hollow of Sherlock’s belly button, felt his breathing jump again. “You’re like a painting, but more beautiful. So much better than a painting because I can touch you. I can taste you.” John let his mouth slide down to Sherlock’s other hip, the sharp jut of his pelvic bone creating a lovely groove for John to place his tongue. “Because you’re mine.”

This time Sherlock’s hips jerked up beneath John’s warm, attentive mouth as if begging of their own accord for his journey to continue downward.

“John—” Sherlock started, something low and needy in his voice, his fingers gripping tight to the backs of John’s thighs. “John, I need—”

“Yes,” John said, his own voice surprising him by how deep it had gone, how rough. 

He’d wanted to keep the pace of this first sun-soaked coupling leisurely and slow—to allow them both time to simply revel in the delight of their bare, sleep-warmed bodies coming together, but now that they were here together it was hard to keep the pace as slow as John might like—it was still too new between them, they had too much hunger, too much want. 

The force of their combined lust was like a fire devouring John from the inside out and he found that much as he would have liked to linger over Sherlock’s stomach for hours kissing every inch of pale skin, he couldn’t stop his mouth from sliding downward into the dark curls at the base of Sherlock’s cock.

Sherlock’s fingers flew to John’s head again as he let his breath plume hot and moist over the hair curling between Sherlock’s legs.

“Yes,” Sherlock hissed as John’s mouth traveled up the length of Sherlock’s cock without touching it, so near—but not touching—his hands settling over Sherlock’s hips, thumbs stroking the twin grooves of his pelvis as his mouth reached the tip, still so close but not touching.

He might not be able to go as slow as liked but he could still manage a modicum of self-control to draw things out, much as he would have liked to swallow Sherlock to the root in one deft move. 

He wanted to make Sherlock beg.

John let a long breath leave his nostrils, watching the engorged head of Sherlock’s cock twitch in response, the muscles in Sherlock’s thighs tensing under John’s weight.

He was still sitting on Sherlock’s legs, effectively pinning Sherlock to the bed beneath him, and although he liked the added element of control this gave him, it meant he didn’t have access to as much as Sherlock as he wanted, so he lifted his weight off of Sherlock’s legs, sliding his fingers in between Sherlock’s knees to push them apart.

“Spread your legs for me, love.”

The endearment slipped out before John had time to stop himself and for a moment he wondered if Sherlock would react to it with disdain—it wasn’t something he had ever said. They didn’t speak like that to one another, or at least they hadn’t yet, and John bit his tongue, worried that he had spoiled the mood with sentiment.

But if Sherlock was bothered by the affectionate term, he kept it to himself. There was a chance he hadn’t noticed it at all so distracted was he in his eagerness to comply with John’s request, and in the next instant, John forgot his own worry completely at the sight of Sherlock parting his legs for John to kneel between them.

“Oh yes, that’s lovely. Yes,” John breathed in a low rush of adoration, placing his warm palms on the inside of Sherlock’s knees and stroking them up toward the heat between Sherlock’s legs.

John bent forward, letting his mouth follow in the wake of his hands to press tiny kisses to the inside of Sherlock’s thigh. He kept his kisses purposefully soft and light, his lips hardly touching the skin before he lifted them away to let fall another gentle kiss. The effect this had on Sherlock was exactly as John had hoped—he began to squirm beneath John’s mouth.

“John—!” he rasped, reaching down to clutch John by the shoulders. “Enough—enough of that, I need you to—”

“Need me to what?” John asked, grinning devilishly up at Sherlock before dropping his mouth to Sherlock’s other thigh, this time letting his tongue come out, dragging it hot and wet against the sensitive skin.

Sherlock actually yelped.

“Your mouth—” he gasped. “I- I need—” His fingernails dug into to John’s shoulders so hard he was surely leaving marks. “I need your mouth around me—”

His hips jerked as John paused to suck a mark into Sherlock’s thigh.

Sherlock hissed, spreading his legs wider on the mattress, fingernails biting into John’s shoulders with renewed force.

John licked at the mark he had just made and felt a shudder move through Sherlock. 

“You know I’d love to do that thing you’re asking for but…” John mouthed further up Sherlock’s thigh, close enough that he could feel the moist heat radiating out from between Sherlock’s legs. It was demanding some serious willpower on his part not to lick his way right up to the crease of Sherlock’s buttocks. He let his fingers trail up the inside of Sherlock’s other thigh. “But I’m afraid you’re going to have to ask nicely.”

Sherlock swore above him, the muscles in his stomach rippling as his body tensed in frustration.

John decided Sherlock needed further encouragement.

He leaned forward, this time giving in to the temptation offered by that enticing heat—he licked the crease where Sherlock’s buttocks met his thigh, following the curve until he found Sherlock’s bollocks, which were drawn up tight against his body. He let his breath fan over them; heard Sherlock whimper above him.

John’s mouth was actually watering with the desire to take Sherlock’s cock between his lips, to feel the heaviness of all that hard hot flesh against his tongue, pushing at the back of his throat, but now that he’d started this he wasn’t going to be the one to give in first. It was good for Sherlock to have his boundaries tested, to have the tables turned on him for once, for John to be the one calling the shots.

“All you have to do is say the word, love.”

The endearment slipped out again, but this time John didn’t care. It felt right, with Sherlock trembling beneath his palms, his swollen cock twitching against his stomach, his lovely pale-white thighs spread wide against the sheets like an invitation just for John.

John dropped his head again and licked all around the circumference of Sherlock’s bollocks, panting open-mouthed as he went so that the hot gust of his breath covered more of Sherlock than he could reach with his tongue.

This proved to be too much for Sherlock.

“God—John, _please_!”

He was tempted to make Sherlock articulate just exactly _where_ he needed to put his mouth but the break in Sherlock’s voice around the word ‘please’ made John relent.

He smiled against Sherlock’s thigh, pressing a kiss to the trembling flesh. “Now that wasn’t so hard was it?” he said, before pulling Sherlock’s bollocks into his mouth.

Sherlock went rigid above him, his back arching up with a strangled cry and never had John been so grateful to _not_ be in Baker Street while they were having sex. Sherlock could yell as loudly as he wanted. The thought made John grin again around his mouthful of Sherlock. He would have to take advantage of this particular freedom to see just how loudly he could make Sherlock yell in bed and just how often.

He swirled his tongue over the delicate heat of Sherlock’s bollocks before releasing them gently, and then finally, true to his word, he licked his way up the length of Sherlock’s cock until he reached the head, the fingers of his left hand wrapping around the base.

Sherlock’s breathing had grown tense above him. John flicked his eyes up toward Sherlock to see that he’d released his grip on John’s shoulders and was sitting up on his elbows to watch the progress of John’s mouth.

A dark mottled flush wound its way down the pale curve of Sherlock’s throat; his eyes were glassy, his lashes so low over his dark pupils he looked drugged; and John could see the uneven pattern of Sherlock’s rapid breathing in the rise and fall of his narrow chest. His lips were parted in an unconscious display of surrender and John realized with a jolt somewhere under his ribs that he’d never seen Sherlock look so vulnerable, so broken open.

The realization made John’s chest constrict with feeling, but it also filled his cock with a renewed rush of blood—Sherlock offering himself up to John, so trusting; his desire naked on his face.

John licked his lips, more committed now than ever to giving Sherlock the best damn blowjob he would ever have in his life. They’d done this before, but it had always been fast, and somewhat frantic, John swallowing Sherlock down as quickly as he could, Sherlock coming in a hot burst sometimes mere seconds after John had taken him into his mouth.

John was careful to keep his eyes on Sherlock’s as he lowered his mouth down and took the slick head of Sherlock’s cock between his lips. He was rewarded with the sight of Sherlock’s mouth dropping open, his head tilting back with a low groan to expose the length of his throat.

John ran his tongue around the corona before lapping at the glans in a flat, broad sweep of his tongue, delighting in the throb of pleasure that he could feel move through Sherlock’s cock in response, in the sound of Sherlock’s ragged cry above him that was almost like a sob.

John was fairly practiced at sucking cock—he’d swallowed down his fair share over the years—but never had he had the pleasure of going down on anyone who was so responsive to every flick, every ripple of his tongue.

Sucking Sherlock off was like putting on a production for an especially receptive audience—he was so vocal in his appreciation. Every groan and gasping breath gave John new information about what he liked, and John, eager to please, put all this information to instantaneous use.

John liked sucking cock, and what’s more, he was _good_ at it. However, the combination of his virtuosity with Sherlock’s intense sensitivity meant that blowjobs for Sherlock never lasted very long.

Judging by the thickness of Sherlock’s cock in John’s mouth, and the violent trembling of Sherlock’s thigh under John’s hand, the way his breathing already sounded thin and desperate, he was already too close. One more stroke of John’s tongue over the slit of his cock and he would be finished.

For once, they had all the time in the world. What if—what _if_ this time John tried something slightly different?

With a touch of regret, John pulled his mouth off of Sherlock. 

It took Sherlock a moment to react. His head jerked up, his hazy eyes opening to look down at John in confusion but before he could open his mouth to question John’s decision John was already putting his new plan into action.

He scooted down on the bed so that he was lying flat on his belly between Sherlock’s thighs. Hooking his hands under Sherlock’s knees, he pulled them up and apart until Sherlock’s feet were settled flat on the mattress. He looked up at Sherlock through his bent knees, offering a sly smile in response to Sherlock’s questioning look.

“I have an idea,” he said, hands gliding back down the insides of Sherlock’s thighs until his thumbs stroked the twin curves of Sherlock’s buttocks, pulling them gently apart. “Pass me a pillow.”

Sherlock reached for one and pushed it down toward John, who took it one-handed, using his other hand to pull gently at Sherlock’s waist. “Lift your hips.”

Sherlock did and John slid the pillow in under his arse. 

“Perfect,” he breathed, tugging gently on Sherlock’s buttocks to expose the tender flesh beneath his balls, leaning in before Sherlock had a chance to realize his intentions and licking the line between his arse cheeks.

Sherlock gasped above him, the sound shocked and pleased in equal measure, and John repeated the motion, relishing in the feel of his tongue sweeping over the fluttering indent of Sherlock’s arse hole. He resisted the urge to press in against it immediately—he wanted to take it slowly, to give Sherlock time to get used to the sensation of John’s tongue on this most intimate part of his body.

Using his hands to hold Sherlock’s arse cheeks apart, he narrowed the focus of his attentions, this time licking all around the circumference of the entrance to Sherlock’s body, not quite touching but warming the area with his breath, his tongue coming teasingly close to actually pressing in.

Sherlock jerked above him with a startled moan, his hands grasping at the sheets on either side of him.

They’d never done this— _he’d_ never done this before, and the forbidden nature of the act intensified the pleasure of it tenfold. 

“J-John, what—?”

John chose that moment to lick directly over Sherlock’s hole, pushing in slightly as he did, delighting in the give of the tight ring of muscle to his tongue. 

Sherlock gasped again, this time sharp and startled, his knees rocking up of their own accord to spread his thighs further apart, his hips bearing down against John’s mouth, the sound of his gasp, dissolving as it left him into a long and glorious moan as John repeated the movement, licking in a tight circle before pushing gently in.

The pillow under Sherlock’s hips meant that his head was lower than his legs, so his face was partially hidden to John’s view. Still, from where he was positioned he could see Sherlock’s hands release their death-grip on the sheets and lift to cover Sherlock’s face. He could just make out the whispered litany that he murmured into his hands as John’s tongue continued to stroke.

“Oh my god, oh my god, _oh my god_.”

The fact that Sherlock was covering his face with his hands, and the low and almost scandalized timber of his voice suggested that he was somewhat… shocked by what John was doing. This realization made something like pride spark to life in John’s chest, but at the same time it gave him pause. After all, he hadn’t asked before he’d started. Probably it was best to ask.

He stopped licking with reluctance and lifted his head between Sherlock’s knees so that he could see Sherlock’s face. He kept his tone inquisitive but light. He wanted to give Sherlock the option to say no without thinking he’d be putting John out. Even though, John reflected, with brutal honesty, he really would. But he wouldn’t let Sherlock know that. If there was one thing John Watson was, he was a considerate lover. “Is this alright?”

Sherlock didn’t immediately respond.

John put a gentle hand on Sherlock’s knee. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock lowered his hands to look up at John, jolted out of his trance-like state by the gentle pressure from John’s palm. “Y-yes,” he gasped. “Oh my god, don’t _stop_ , John!”

John grinned. “Good. I just wanted to make sure.”

“Can’t you—” Sherlock was breathing so hard he could scarcely complete a sentence. How he could manage to sound both completely overwhelmed and exasperated at the same time was a mystery to John. “Can’t you tell?”

John didn’t reply. He lowered his head, spreading Sherlock’s arse cheeks, and this time, he plunged his tongue directly into the pulsing heat between Sherlock’s legs.

Sherlock made a sound somewhere between a cry and a yell, back arching dramatically, his hips pushing up into the pressure of John’s tongue.

“ _Oh my god, John_ ,” he managed to gasp out amidst the panting chaos of his breathing. John had never heard him sound so reverent. 

John smiled against Sherlock’s arse, pushing just the tip of his tongue into Sherlock’s arsehole and then wriggling it to push it deeper.

“Oh my god,” Sherlock said again, his voice utterly wrecked. It seemed it was the only thing he could manage to say. He sounded turned inside out.

John licked and pushed, and licked and pushed, alternating the speed, the pressure of his movements to coax the flexing muscle into submission beneath his tongue.

He’d never done this before but he was quickly discovering that he loved it just as much as sucking cock, maybe _more_. The knowledge that he was stroking at the heart of Sherlock’s body, this deepest, most intimate part of him, that likely _no one_ had ever touched before, it made him giddy, made the heat in his own cock swell to bursting, made him want to grind his hips into the mattress beneath him just to soothe the ache that throbbed through the length of him.

The feel of it, the way it jumped and twitched underneath his tongue, so delicate, so responsive, made John want to push and push at it until it gave way to him completely. He wanted to push deeper than his tongue could reach, he wanted to bury his face against Sherlock’s arse cheeks and _suck_ until saliva was running down his chin and over the crease of Sherlock’s arse, until Sherlock came, screaming, his cock untouched.

John pushed his face deeper just at the thought, moaning into the moist heat, his tongue thrusting in an even rhythm.

He began to fuck Sherlock with his tongue, tiny, probing searching movements, breaking this pattern every so often to lick over the whole trembling, flexing exterior.

Sherlock was whimpering above him, his knees bent completely off the mattress, his hips rocking forward with each stroke of John’s tongue.

John spared a glance up at Sherlock’s long neglected cock to see that it was almost purple with want, the tip slick and glistening with fluid. It made a pang of sympathy move through John and he decided to slightly alter the course of his plans.

He pulled back, breathless, leaving his position between Sherlock’s knees to crawl toward the nightstand. For one brief, infuriating moment John wished that they were back in their own bed at Baker Street where the bed wasn’t so large it felt like crossing a desert just to reach the other side. 

Sherlock give a sharp whimper of distress, one hand reaching out to clutch at John and drag him back.

“Shh, it’s alright. I’m just getting something.”

Trying his best to move as quickly as possible, John lunged for the nightstand where they’d mercifully left the lube from the night before. He snatched it from where it stood beside the empty champagne bottle and then crawled back into position between Sherlock’s knees.

John stole a glance up at Sherlock as he flipped the cap open on the bottle of lube and the sight that greeted him was enough to make a moan slide out of his throat, unbidden.

If John’s goal had been to make Sherlock utterly come undone, then it would be safe to say at this juncture, that his plan had proved successful.

Sherlock’s head was thrown back on the pillows, his eyes half-shut. His hair hung in a disheveled tangle of curls over his forehead. His face was flushed and gleaming with sweat, his throat and chest mottled with bright patches of red. His fingers were clenched in his hair, pulling, as he thrashed against the pillow in mindless need.

“ _John_ ,” he moaned. 

“I know,” John whispered, kissing his thighs, feeling a rush of tenderness fill his chest at the sight of Sherlock so apparently helpless, lost to pleasure. “I know. I’m sorry. Just wait one minute. I’m going to make you feel so good.”

He pressed one last kiss to Sherlock’s thigh, felt Sherlock jerk against him at the warm touch of his mouth. He knew it wasn’t helping, but he couldn’t help himself. Sherlock’s thigh was so lean and enticing, dusted with a sparse covering of dark hair, the tendon standing out sharply where it met Sherlock’s torso.

John squeezed some of the clear, cold gel onto his shaking fingers—he was almost as far gone as Sherlock by now—and breathed against it in a futile effort to warm it. 

“Sorry, this might be cold,” he murmured, pushing one slick finger against Sherlock’s trembling hole.

Sherlock jerked at the first press of his finger and then whined with longing, pushing his hips greedily forward. “Y-yes, John. Yes. Yes, yes, yes—I need you in me. _Please_ , John. Please!”

John wasted one precious moment marveling at the transformation that had overtaken Sherlock. Not half an hour ago, Sherlock had been insisting his body was a fortress made of steel—John had to work at him for minutes to coax a ‘please’ out of him, and now, here he was, his thighs stretched wide, lifting himself up on his elbows to help push his weight down onto John’s hand, the note of desperation in his voice like a fist around John’s heart, squeezing.

John licked his lips, struggling for a moment to find his voice. When he spoke, it came out sounding much rougher than he’d ever heard it. “I’m going to make you come so hard you’re going to see stars.”

Sherlock let out a wail at that, knotted fingers pulling at his curls. “John!” he all but sobbed.

“Shh, shh, shh.”

John placed a hand on one of Sherlock’s thighs to keep him spread, his thumb stroking absently over the sensitive skin as he pushed his slicked finger in. 

He went cautiously at first, circling the ring of flesh once before pushing gently in, but he needn’t have worried. Sherlock gave easily to the intrusion, his body worked so thoroughly open from John’s eager tongue.

John pushed his finger the rest of the way in, groaning at the feel of Sherlock giving way to him, all that heat, all that tight muscle clamping down around his finger.

“H-how’s that?” he asked, shakily, leaning forward to balance his weight on one spread palm.

“More John, more!” Sherlock rocked his hips and John hissed as the movement pulled his finger deeper.

“Well aren’t you a greedy thing?” John leaned forward with a feral grin, and Sherlock’s eyes flashed up at him—something bright and hungry glittering in each pupil amidst the fog of lust.

“More,” he panted, grinding his hips in a slow circle, making John’s own cock twitch between his legs in sympathy.

This time John did as he asked, wriggling a second finger in beside the first.

It slid in easily and Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered closed.

“How’s that?” John asked; his voice strained.

“It’s g-good,” Sherlock choked out, rocking his hips in an effort to get John’s fingers to move. “But I need—”

“I know, love.”

John curled his finger, searching for the small protrusion that would tell him he had found Sherlock’s prostate. The sound Sherlock made when he brushed up against it was shattering.

“Fuck, _fuck_!” Sherlock’s hands reached blindly out to fist in the sheets, his hips arching sharply upwards.

John began to slide his fingers gently in and out.

Sherlock bucked his hips, rocking his body in time with John’s strokes, his head thrashing on the pillow. 

He was moaning now—low and continuous, the sounds almost animalistic, as though he couldn’t help but make them, as though they were being pulled out of him against his will. The sound of them made John’s cock jump and pulse between his legs. 

He wanted so badly to reach down and take himself in hand, but he was too focused on the slick, even slide of his fingers in and out of Sherlock. He needed Sherlock to come, and he needed it to be good, before he could spare a thought for himself.

Sherlock’s hands were restless. They were everywhere at once, roving, desperate—first fisting in his hair, then sliding down over his face, the spread fingers of one hand tugging at the corner of his mouth, his other hand straying down over his chest to rub his own nipples.

“ _John_ ,” he moaned; the sound of John’s name in his mouth needy and worshipful, somehow filled with gratitude and desperation all at once.

“What is it, love?” John leaned down to kiss the inside of Sherlock’s knee, increasing the speed of his movements, curling his fingers just so, so that they rubbed against the sensitive bundle of nerves with every stroke.

He was fucking Sherlock with his fingers, Sherlock grinding his hips down to meet every stroke. The knowledge of this almost made John lose it himself.

He moved his free hand from where it was holding Sherlock’s thigh to slide it over Sherlock’s hip, up his side and over the stark grooves of his ribs to join his hand with Sherlock’s where it was rubbing over Sherlock’s nipples.

Sherlock moaned anew at the presence of John’s hand joining his, his cock pulsing weakly against his stomach. John watched a glistening bead of fluid rise to the tip.

At the sight of Sherlock’s poor, neglected cock, John took pity on him. Enough was enough.

John slid his hand back down Sherlock’s chest and took hold of his cock, slicking his fingers liberally in the fluid leaking from the tip and stroking down the length of it once, slowly.

Sherlock cried out at the touch, his whole body undulating in one long slide of need, one hand stretching up over his head to claw in desperation at the pillows behind him. He was so wound up with tension that the slightest friction had him almost coming.

Sherlock’s cock pulsed in John’s hand, and John rubbed his thumb over the slit.

Sherlock made a sound like a sob.

“Alright love, it’s time to come for me now.”

He was still fucking into Sherlock with his fingers and he increased the pace, matching the rhythm of his fingers in and out with the fingers wrapped around Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock whimpered brokenly in response, pushing his face in against the skin of his upper arm and wailing.

“Shh, shh. It’s all right; you can let go now. It’s time.”

Sherlock’s hips were thrusting in time with John’s strokes, his spread thighs straining further apart as if by doing so he could pull John deeper into him.

Sherlock was so close; he was _so close_ —John could feel the tremors building in Sherlock’s curled torso as his orgasm gathered force; he could feel the first sweet pulses of Sherlock’s body around his fingers, and then, in a stroke of inspiration John realized what he needed to do.

John leaned forward and using the hand on the base of Sherlock’s cock to guide his movements, he took Sherlock into his mouth. He hollowed his cheeks, sucking lightly, running his tongue over the slit of Sherlock’s weeping cock, the fingers of one hand still wrapped around the base, his other fingers continuing their even slide in and out.

That was it; it was over.

Sherlock let out a strangled yell, his body clenching hard around John’s fingers, hips thrusting up, and then he was coming, shooting into John’s mouth in pulse after pulse as his orgasm ripped through him.

John did not relent, he kept his mouth around Sherlock’s cock, swallowing down each emission with eager gulps, his fingers still working in and out of Sherlock until he knew over-sensitivity would make the feeling unbearable and he pulled his slick fingers free, helping guide Sherlock’s body back down to the bed with one slippery hand.

He released Sherlock’s softening cock from his mouth with some reluctance, kissing the tip of it before straightening up to survey the rest of the damage. 

Sherlock was flung back against the pillows, his hair a dark tangle around his head, one arm pushed up over his reddened face. His body was still shuddering through the aftermath of his orgasm, his breathing fast and irregular.

He looked utterly boneless, wrecked, like some angelic creature whose vices having been exposed, was plucked from the heavens by an angry god and hurled back to earth.

John, whose own cock was still hard and aching between his legs, was trying to decide how best to deal with his present situation when Sherlock lifted one arm off his face to peer up at him.

“How are you?” John asked, his voice sounding only slightly strained.

“Thoroughly fucked,” Sherlock said, his own voice like ground glass rubbed in velvet. He stretched, pushing his fists up over his head into the pillows and arching his back. 

John cleared his throat, feeling suddenly, inexplicably self-conscious. “And… how was that?”

Sherlock looked up at him, incredulous. “Are you really asking me that?”

John shrugged, feeling doubly foolish.

“John.” Something in Sherlock’s voice softened. “Come here.”

Sherlock held out one pale hand and John took it, shivering lightly as Sherlock tugged John in against his side. 

Sherlock’s whole body felt different—it was remarkable how much he could change just in the span of a few minutes. Whereas a moment ago he had been rigid, trembling, his whole body convulsing with need, now he was sinuous, soft, his body like butter, his skin like fresh cream; he seemed to coil around John as John lay next to him.

“John,” Sherlock said, pushing his face in against John’s forehead, nuzzling at the line of his hair.

“Yes?” John said, his voice cracking with the strain of his unbearably aroused body, practically vibrating with the need to push his hips into Sherlock, to thrust, to _fuck_ , to do anything that would help alleviate the tension pulsing hot and dark all through him.

But lovely, clever, _clever_ Sherlock—he knew, he knew what John needed without John even having to ask.

Sherlock’s broad palm slid down John’s side, over the crest of his hip and his flank to take John in his hand.

“That was…” Sherlock’s fingers—those deft and skillful fingers—a musician’s fingers, John thought fleetingly, as they tugged John’s foreskin down, his thumb circling the exposed head, making John’s breath catch sharply in his throat. “…the best… sex…” Sherlock pushed his nose in against John’s, breathing the words into John’s open mouth as his fingers on the shaft of John’s cock began to stroke. “…I’ve ever had.”

John curled his body in against Sherlock gratefully, hips hitching in towards Sherlock’s hand.

“And if you couldn’t tell that simply from being in the same room with me,” Sherlock went on, fingers squeezing lightly, applying the perfect amount of pressure as they began to speed up. “Then you’re a fool, John Watson.”

John whimpered softly as Sherlock’s lips grazed over his own.

The words may have been cruel but the tenderness in Sherlock’s voice was unmistakable.

Sherlock reached up a hand between them, his thumb stroking down over the corner of John’s lips with shocking gentleness.

Then Sherlock tipped his mouth in against John’s, his tongue sweeping over the open expanse of John’s panting mouth before pushing in, hot and wet and possessive.

John moaned into the kiss, hips jerking forward into Sherlock’s hand, a wordless plea for Sherlock to speed up the movement of his strokes.

John pushed his own tongue forward to meet Sherlock’s, curling his around Sherlock’s, licking the warm strong curve of muscle, and for a while the only sounds in the sun-bright room were the slick slide of Sherlock’s hand up and down John’s cock and the wet sound of their mouths coming together again and again.

Sherlock pulled back, breathless, pressing his forehead in against John’s. 

“You took me apart, John,” Sherlock gasped, his fist tightening around John and pumping, hard and fast around him. “No one’s ever done that to me before. It was…” Sherlock licked at John’s open mouth and John lifted his leg to clamp it around Sherlock and drag his body closer. Sherlock’s swollen lips dragged over John’s. “It was… indescribable.”

John was barely able to discern Sherlock’s words, so focused was he on the slick slide of Sherlock’s fist around his cock, on the glistening curve of Sherlock’s shoulder in the light from the window, the whole long curve of Sherlock’s arm and shoulder shining bright with sweat.

The sun had moved again since they had started—it was still lying in a brilliant stripe across the bed and half of Sherlock’s torso. Mercifully John’s body, and the other half of Sherlock’s torso, lay in shadow, but if Sherlock tipped his head back, the sun would be tangled in his hair. 

For one wild moment, the only thought in John’s mind was to know what Sherlock’s hair would look like lit up by that beam of sunlight.

John dropped his head, pressing his open mouth to the sharp point of Sherlock’s clavicle and licking his way up the length of Sherlock’s throat.

Sure enough, Sherlock’s head fell back, his fingers stuttering around John’s cock, losing his rhythm, but John didn’t care because just as he had hoped, Sherlock’s head tipped back and everything in John’s body came to a shuddering halt at the sight of that fierce blaze of sunlight beading in Sherlock’s matted curls.

Sherlock, perhaps sensing John’s stillness, redoubled his efforts; stroking John’s cock in sharp, brutal bursts, leaning into catch John’s bottom lip between his teeth.

Now it was John’s turn to drop his head back exposing the length of his neck, stomach muscles tightening, his calf clenching over Sherlock’s hip as the first low ripples of his orgasm began to spread outward from his abdomen.

“Come on, John,” Sherlock growled, teeth dragging down John’s neck, pausing briefly to suck a bruise into the underside of John’s throat. “Come _on_.”

John fucked his hips upward into Sherlock’s fist; fingers tightening around Sherlock’s bicep as he thrust with all his might, a low whimper sounding in the base of his throat as Sherlock sucked harder, so hard that the pain that lanced through John felt delicious, bright, seemed to double the force of his pleasure with its searing warmth.

“That’s it. _Come on_.”

Sherlock’s free hand slid down John’s back to clutch at his arse, tugging John’s body in hard against the side of Sherlock’s thigh.

Two more thrusts and John was done—gone, pushed over the edge into a glittering abyss where all was light and a wide white absence of sound, stretching on and on within him, long and deep filling him up, over and over again as his hips bucked up into Sherlock’s fist, the pleasure breaking open inside him, breaking him open, the light shining through him like cracks in a shattered window pane.

Distantly, he felt Sherlock’s forehead pushing in against his own, Sherlock’s fingers digging into the skin of his arse, and then, Sherlock leaning in to kiss his cheeks, his brow bone, his closed eyes, hands coming up to cup John’s face, and for a moment John swore that this was a sex-induced hallucination.

“Sherlock?” he pulled blearily backwards, only now seeing the stripes of his release coating Sherlock’s belly and hip.

Sherlock pressed one last lingering kiss to the tip of John’s nose, then rubbed his nose against John’s cheek, and shut his eyes, sighing long and deep.

John let himself drift for several thudding heartbeats, content to rest with Sherlock’s face pressed in against his, Sherlock’s legs still twined around his own; aware now of the cooling sweat between their bodies, all down his front and along Sherlock’s side. His hips were fused to Sherlock’s thigh with swiftly drying come. Somehow, none of this bothered him in the slightest.

John rubbed his own face over Sherlock’s, a laugh rising to the brink of his lips as his mind drifted over all that had transpired in the course of the morning. He managed to keep it in, but Sherlock must have felt the ripple of mirth move through his torso.

“What?” he asked sleepily, not bothering to open his eyes.

“I thought…” John had to choke back another giggle. “Earlier, I was going to tell you…” John snuffled with laughter against Sherlock’s collarbone. 

Sherlock shifted now, leaning back to look at John, his eyes wide with curiosity. 

“I was going to tell you,” John gasped out. “That you looked like a fallen angel.”

The confession proved too much. He dissolved into giggles.

Sherlock frowned against him, the corners of his lips twitching down with distaste. “Really, John. In future, please spare me all instances of poetic fancy.”

John scarcely heard him; he was too busy laughing, his torso convulsing with mirth.

He buried his face in Sherlock’s neck and howled with laughter.

Sherlock made a disapproving noise above him, settling his chin against John’s hair, but when John twisted his head up to find Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock acquiesced, his lips tender and kiss-swollen, he felt the corners of Sherlock’s mouth tick upwards in smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave me a comment if you enjoyed this! I would love to hear your thoughts!
> 
> Also, if you're not already, you should come follow me on [tumblr](http://holmesianpose.tumblr.com/)!
> 
>  
> 
> ETA: If you'd like to see a copy of the painting John saw in the Kunsthistorisches Museum that made him think of Sherlock, [here](http://holmesianpose.tumblr.com/post/109865487824/gleichnis-vom-verlorenen-sohn-giovanni/) is a link to the one I had in mind. And [here](http://holmesianpose.tumblr.com/post/109865565469/judith-and-the-head-of-holofernes-gustav-klimt/) is the one by Gustav Klimt.


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